We are our memories, and at the same time are now so unlike them

I was having a glass of wine with a couple of women the other day – as one does – when I remarked that I still had a collection of old love letters and photos of old girlfriends.

And – as women do – their reactions ranged from “aww, sensitive, romantic man” to “what does your wife say?” and “can’t you let go?”

My “memory box” is a rather battered old hat box inherited from my parents when they discarded it many years ago. It is a slightly more garish (it is shiny red… and no, I’m not gay, but thanks for asking) version of the one my father had and in which he put photographs and mementos.

There was one black-and-white, crumpled picture of him, taken in a London photographic studio – one of the few that survived the Blitz, I suppose – showing him in his smart Royal Air Force uniform.

There was also a slightly battered copy of a menu from the dining room on the MV Tjisadane, the passenger ship that carried my father and 205 other officers and ranks from Two Squadron, South African Air Force, on their way to the Korean war in October 1950.

It was not that my father was a war lover. Quite the opposite: after going through two himself, he always considered them “a bugger” and a waste of time.

But he kept his mementos because they reminded him of days at once terrible but exciting – and of loyalty above and beyond. My memory box is a bit like that. I have no desire to travel the “road not taken” with those old girlfriends … and in at least one case, I know it would have ended in the throwing of crockery and floods of tears (and from her, too …)

I am quite satisfied with the way my life turned out and have no desire to go back in time to change it. My wife knows that and, though she doesn’t quite understand why I keep the top cupboard shelf cluttered up with the hideous hatbox, she has developed a wonderful way of gently rolling her eyes and humouring me (which, I am led to believe, is quite common in the female species …)

My memory box reminds me, though, of times past. And I believe everyone should have one. Your past has made you what you are today and where you will be heading.

When I look through mine – which I do every two or three years or so – I remember. Was it possible for any human being to write such bad poetry (I kept a few of those old poems, too).

How could a girl be so cheesy, writing those long vacuous letters adorned with hearts? How could she have hair that big? How did that innocent boy in camouflage uniform not know what was coming down the road, that bugger of a war my father talked about … And that long-haired skinny reporter in the cheap Greatermans suit had no idea he was embarking on a career in journalism which would thrill, threaten and frustrate in equal measure, but allow him to meet some amazing people and tell some amazing stories.

But the real reason I love to trawl through that old hat box is something more mundane and human … vanity. That long-haired, skinny cadet reporter in the shiny nylon suit was everything I am not today: long-haired and skinny. And, every now and then, happy as I am, I miss him…